You Found Me
by detectiveintheshadows
Summary: Irene Adler has been living in Philadelphia under a new name ever since Sherlock saved her in Karachi. Until, one day, he turns up at the bottom of her street and she doesn't know what she should feel. Adlock, Sherene, Shirene, whichever ;)
1. Chapter 1

**Hey! So, this is the first chapter of my new fanfic which I hope is going to develop into a multi-chaptered story. It was based and inspired by the song 'You Found Me' by the band The Fray and kudos to me for a completely original title! Not.**

**Anyway, hope you enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own 'Sherlock' or any of its characters. T.T**

* * *

_I found God_

_On the corner of First and Amistad_

_Where the west was all but won_

_All alone_

_Smoking his last cigarette_

_I said, "Where have you been?"_

_He said, "Ask anything."_

It's just another ordinary day for Sara Myers. Of course, _ordinary_ is boring, when her old identity (not her first one, just the _latest_) is recorded dead and buried (well, not _buried, _just... disposed of) and she is now a normal, young, slightly strikingly beautiful American woman with a _normal _job at a _normal _surgery in Philadelphia.

It is an easy (boring) accomplishment to hide herself in the crowds of mundane people that occupy the city. It is also easy to drop all her British habits and turn into an average American one would overlook in a street. Funny, she reflects. She had always hated America- the people, the food and the noisy, dense atmosphere that swamped the country like a smog that was so thick one could only blindly feel their way through every stupid, meaningless, monotonous day that shared every characteristic with the day before and the day before _that _and the weeks and the months and the years that were _exactly the same. _

Of course, she hadn't disliked it so strongly when she was a powerful dominatrix who had the means to send the most important politicians on their knees and begging for mercy (many more times than twice) and when she had secrets in her hands that were so dark and hidden and simply _delicious _that she could have taken down any country in the world. But no, she had had to pick _England._ Of all 196 separate countries, England.

But now she is _not _an all-powerful dominatrix with at least three-quarters of the human population under her thumb, and she has every right to loathe the USA.

And now, with the commonplace name _Sara _that _he _has given her, she has to talk to boring, ordinary, mundane, tedious, dull people about their irrelevant lives that bear no consequence to the indifferent universe and pretend to be interested and smile and laugh and make weak jokes and in return fill them in on _her _colourless life and meaningless gossip that has been circulating about Steve Thompson from upstairs who is apparently cheating on his wife with three (yes, no less than three!) different women who all have no clue that he is married.

And so she carries on.

Until, that afternoon, she comes across Sherlock Holmes leaning nonchalantly on the wall and smoking on the corner of Alberger's Street where, incidentally, her apartment is.

Her first reaction is surprise (as would anyone's be if they saw their saviour turn up in their lives after abandoning them). Her second is anger (there isn't anything burning under it she hates him she hates him she hates him). Just like him to show up in her carefully methodised life (she refuses to believe her repetitious days are anything but a choice) and rip the tightly stitched seams in her heart to shreds. She is trembling (she doesn't know why, of course she doesn't) by the time she reaches him.

His eyes have turned towards her form and she silently screams at her frame to stop this damn shivering (it doesn't obey her; now even her own body betrays her). He is smirking and the wave of fury is rising in her chest and swallowing her mind and she wants to rip his face off or kiss him she doesn't know which one would cause her the most pleasure possibly both and her mind is a jumble of words and fragmented sentences and, and, and...

He finally speaks and his voice is a rumble in his chest and it sounds so familiar that there is a painful twisting in her heart.

"No need to look so terrified," he drawls, lazily pushing himself off the wall. "Or is that what ex-dominatrixes do when they come across old... acquaintances?"

She bristles at his cockiness and at the intentional stress on his last word (they both know that he didn't think of her that way the last time they met).

"Just because you get scared of women, _Mr Holmes, _doesn't mean you should treat one disrespectfully. Didn't Mummy teach you that? Or at least your dear big brother Mikey?"

She knows her retort is insubstantial and she can tell he does too, by the glint in his eye.

One corner of his mouth pulls up into a sneer. "_Miss Adler... _No need to be jealous of my mother. We both know yours wasn't around too much in your childhood, don't we?"

And that is the last straw. The rage that has been simmering under her skin now rises to crash around her ears and strike her blind with its sheer force. Her hand lifts, as if of its own accord (she knows it doesn't, she knows it's because she loves him and hates him simultaneously) and cracks once across his face.

_I could cut myself slapping that face._

The words, her own words, echo in her ears. But he only turns his head with the blow and stays silent, though his cheek is flushed fuchsia. That only stokes her rage further and she strikes him again and again, until her hand is burning as if nettles have just been dragged across her flesh and the right side of his face is stained with the darkest shade of scarlet she has ever laid eyes on.

Her chest is heaving, her acrimony not yet satisfied. Her lips are struggling to form words (something along the lines of _bastard _or _I hate you_) and she is staring up at his (beautiful) face with a mixture of disgust (wonder), hate (love) and frustration (infatuation) when her mouth is engulfed by his and she is suddenly pressed up against the very wall he had been inclined against earlier and her lips are stiff from shock for only a millisecond before she is kissing him back just as furiously.

She pulls away.

"Where have you been?" she whispers, centimetres away from his face.

He smirks again, though this time it is almost... endearing to her.

"Ask me anything."

* * *

**I'm currently working on the second chapter, which should be pretty fun! I hope you liked this one. Thanks for reading!**

**~thedetectiveintheshadows**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey! This is Chapter 2 and I hope you enjoy it. I had a little spot of trouble with this, so sorry for the delay and if you think it's not up to scratch. I can always rewrite it, if you like. Anyway, hopefully you like it; if you don't, please drop me a line! :)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own 'Sherlock' or any of its characters.**

* * *

_Where were you_

_When everything was falling apart_

_All my days_

_Were spent by the telephone_

_That never rang_

_And all I needed was a call_

_That never came_

_To the corner of First and Amistad_

He is staring at her. Not that she _cares_. But he is being rather open about it; he's not even trying to hide the fact. Once, she would have been flattered. Once, she would have tried to seduce him. Once, she would have smiled with her red lips and stroked her whip with scarlet nails.

But that was then. And that was Irene Adler. _Now, _she is Sara Myers, _ordinary._

She pointedly ignores him, focusing on the noodles that are about to slip off her disposable wooden chopsticks. Chinese takeaway, and poor quality, at that. She sighs internally. This isn't really turning into the best day for her. He hasn't even answered any of her questions.

Deciding to break the uncomfortable silence, she looks up to an invisible point just above his left eyebrow.

"Finally having dinner together, are we?" she smirks.

He barely even bothers to glance away from her.

"As it seems." His voice is toneless and she wonders just _what _goes on in his head. "Although, _Miss Adler,_ you may have noticed that you are the only one ingesting food_._ That hardly counts as having dinner _together._"

She is about to make a retort, when he interrupts even before she has opened her mouth.

"And please don't repeat yourself. It makes for boring conversation and passes you off as _stupid._"

She raises an eyebrow, undaunted by the now scorching gaze that is trained on her face. "Stupid, now? And _Myers _is the name you gave me, if you could possibly struggle with it all the way to the end."

The creases between his eyebrows deepen, and a pleasurable flash of triumph courses through her skin and tingles at her fingertips.

"Yes, _stupid._" He says the word with childlike sulkiness.

Her lips are parting to make another stinging comment when he mutters something quietly.

"And anyway, you'll always be Irene Adler to me."

She stops short, not quite believing her ears.

"Sh- Sherlock...?"

His face and neck are flushed red. "Nothing," he mumbles. "Nothing at all. Forget it."

She carefully lays down her chopsticks in the flimsy foil tray and rises to walk round her kitchen table. Letting her arms hang loosely down by her sides (she's read somewhere that this communicates non-threat to animals), she moves to stand directly in front of his chair.

His head is hanging down. She reaches down gingerly to place an open palm on his clenched jaw. Surprisingly, he allows it.

"No, that was not 'nothing'. Sherlock Holmes, that was not _nothing _and you very well know it." Her tone is gentle though firm, and she forces him to look at her.

"What was it? Sherlock. What was it?"

He looks away again. "What was what?" He frowns obstinately.

She inches closer to him. "You know what."

He jerks away from her touch. "No, I don't. Please feel free to remove yourself from my personal space. I believe you're _invading_ it."

She maintains her light tone, with an effort. "And you mind, do you?"

He looks up at her and the venom in his eyes is obvious. "Yes! Yes, I do. Although we both know that you wish I didn't."

His eyebrows are drawn together and he spits out the words with a malice she hasn't seen before in him.

She backs away slowly, taken aback by his anger. "Sherlock... Are you alright?"

He glowers, his mouth pursed in a single straight line that turns his lips white. "Yes. I am perfectly fine. Thank you, for your... _concern._"

Fury burns inside her but she forces herself to keep herself under control. How dare he turn up here after all these years with no word and expect her to simply forgive him and _take _his jabs lying down? Does he have any idea how long she has waited for a text from him, how long she has stared at her camera phone willing it to utter a text alert that never came, how long she has hoped with every fibre of her body that he will return?

She takes a shaky breath through her nose and lets it out slowly. _Keep calm, Irene, _she wills herself. _Just one more day, perhaps. Then he'll be gone and you can live in peace again._

But she knows it is sparse comfort and that she will be hankering for a glimpse of ivory skin and raven curls the minute he disappears again to wherever he goes.

She smiles tightly at him, determinedly unruffled. Shrugging her shoulders, she moves round to her own chair and sits.

"Okay, whatever you want."

He looks bewildered for a split second.

Taking a deep breath, she leans forward on the table, pushing aside the half-eaten mess of clumped noodles and mushy dumplings.

"Why are you here?"

Seeing the look of uncertainty he throws her, she adds quickly,

"And actually _tell _me this time. Or I'll make sure you never can. That was a threat, Mr Holmes. A solid one that I am not afraid to act upon."

Clearing his throat, he stands up and begins to pace her linoleum kitchen floor.

"Moriarty, as you know, is dead. He is no longer a threat. But his right-hand man, by the name of Sebastian Moran, is still alive. He has taken over the Web and it is stronger than ever."

Her brows knit when he stops again.

"So? What has that got to do with me? Whether Sebastian lives or dies is nothing to me. I am a dead woman, Mr Holmes."

His eyes close for a brief second.

"Miss Adler... Irene. It's not- I... I need-"

Her gaze and voice are sharp.

"You need what? Your little soldier-boy to come and watch your back while you play Hero and save the day?" The words come out more angry and bitter than what she'd originally aimed for and she feels momentarily guilty at the flash in his eyes.

"No." Sherlock is looking straight at her, eyes meeting eyes in a battle of wills whose winner is never determined. "John Watson thinks me dead."

The needle of remorse turns into a knife and stabs at her side. She pushes the _feelings _away. She can't afford them.

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that. But I would have thought that you would've contacted him by now. His poor little heart is probably broken."

His face tightens and he turns away.

"It's to protect him. Moran has his snipers trained on him and they are watching his every move."

A flash of understanding. Anything for Doctor John Hamish Watson.

"And you're not resting until every single thread of the Web is eliminated." Her voice is quiet and, not for the first time, she marvels at Sherlock Holmes' love for John Watson.

He nods. "And that's why I- I need your-"

She furrows her eyebrows. "Say it. What do you need?"

He swallows, staring at the floor and she finally comprehends him.

"Oh. So this is it, is it? You're still playing the Game and you need my help- you need _me_- but you're too proud to ask. Well, I've stopped playing, Mr Holmes. The Game was over long ago for me."

He glances up at her, forehead wrinkled in bemusement.

"What do you mean, you've stopped playing? You and I- beings like you and I are made to play the Game. It's the only thing we can do."

She shakes her head, her mouth twisting into a morose smile.

"Kate died. Kate died because I played and I will never forgive myself. I decided to stop before any other people I care about die."

He meets her eyes and she sees a flicker of understanding in their fathomless depths.

"You- you loved her. You loved her and she died."

Steel seals her soul again.

"Yes." she says abruptly. "I loved her the same way you love John Watson. And now you see; I can't let that happen again."

She's not sure which she means. That she can't let herself care for anyone or that she can't let them die.

Because they are exactly the same yet completely different, Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler. He plays to save his loved one and she played to lose hers.

He speaks hesitantly. "Irene. I understand, but... but pl- I need..."

She lets out a huff of breath that was meant to be a laugh. "And still, the great Sherlock Holmes cannot bring himself to beg for help. Say you need me, Sherlock. Beg."

He clenches his jaw and flares his nostrils. "I don't see what the need for this is. You won't gain anything and I won't lose anything. Why?"

She sighs. "You know why. I promised, remember. Twice."

An eternity passes, filled only with the sounds of their breathing and his internal struggle.

His voice is hoarse when he finally speaks, and it catches on her name.

"Please. I need your help, Irene. I need _you._"

* * *

**It's a little OOC, but I swear I tried! I think Irene has changed during her time in Philadelphia without her usual lifestyle and, of course, Kate.**

**My brain has dissolved into a puddle of mush, so please be patient for the next chapter. Also, Johnlock undertones? I used the word 'love' as in not the feelings Irene and Sherlock share, as in Sherlock would do anything for John, the same way Irene would have done anything for Kate (in my belief, anyway; I think I've been reading a little too much Irene/Kate fanfic).**

**Many thanks to my absolute favourite fanfiction author Francesca Wayland for giving me enormous help when I rather desperately PMed her when I was hopelessly trapped and sinking in the fatal marshland named 'Writer's Block' or, in my case, 'Absolutely Stuck For Ideas And With No Clue How To Carry On'. I owe her a lot both for the help and also for her flawless Adlock fics which I cling onto with every new Moffat-and-Gatiss torture.**

**Sorry for my rambling! Thank you for reading!:)**

**~detectiveintheshadows**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey! So, third chapter! This one is a little different from the other two, as it's written from Sherlock's PoV (mind you, he's facking _hard_ to write) and, obviously, I'm not smart enough to write the amazing deductions and what-not that happen in that big, sexy brain of his. ;) So please overlook any stupid plot-holes and bad writing! By the way, each line break is a time skip. Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

_Lost and insecure_

_You found me, you found me_

_Lyin' on the floor_

_Surrounded, surrounded_

_Why'd you have to wait?_

_Where were you, where were you_

_Just a little late_

_You found me, you found me_

Gun barrel meets skull with a satisfying _crack, _and Sherlock grunts in satisfaction as the man, Aleksandr Kankanov, falls to the ground with a cry. He turns to deal with the other woman, but finds her already on her knees before The Woman. He is momentarily stunned by the look on her face- fierce and strong and beautiful- before he saves the image in the right wing of his mind palace that is reserved for The Woman- and _only _The Woman.

"You're meant to be-"

He is cut off by her nod (sharp and efficient and belonging only to her).

"The files are in my pocket. We need to get out of here now; others are on their way."

He opens his mouth to protest- he knows that the enemy's backup is fifteen minutes away at the very least- when he is suddenly pushed up against a wall in a choke and lock that even he can't break out of and she is whispering forcefully in his ear.

"I suggest you listen to me, Mr Holmes. And listen carefully. Sebastian isn't so careless as to leave important documents lying around the place with only two or three guards. There are more. And they're here, somewhere. We have to get out of here- and fast."

He lets out a strangled noise and she smirks- he can feel that she does even when he can't see her- and releases him.

He determinedly keeps his arms by his sides so as not to rub at the reddening bruise he can feel growing on his neck.

"Well, Miss Adler," he hisses, annoyed at her power over him and his submission. "If you're so _clever_ why don't you just lead the way out of here?"

She smiles defiantly at him.

"Fine."

Her voice is almost _insolent_ and, for a single second, he nearly leaps forward to strangle her.

She has already turned by the time he has fought to get himself under control, and is striding away with her heels (she insists on wearing them even when on a mission as significant as this) clicking on the creaking wooden floor, each step like a gunshot in the confined space.

It takes him twenty-three point seven seconds to shake himself out of his stupor and a further eight point two to resolve the internal battle raging in his head. His feet shuffle momentarily before he strides after her.

It is different, this... feeling. Usually he is in control, able to predict the slightest movement of the people surrounding him (he has worked incredibly hard on these barriers and stone walls that separate his brain from _ordinary people_) but with her, with The Woman, he is always a step- or two- behind and he has to _fumble _for his usual indifference. It is as if she is a jaguar with cold blue eyes and jet black hair, with a grace and elegance and composure that outstrips all the other mere mortals gawping in her wake- _and he is one of them._

It has always bothered him, this thought that one day he will be thrust into the path of a being greater than he (cleverer, fiercer, stronger) and now here she is.

Every glance that is thrown from her to him, every word and every sound, drives into his flesh like an arrow and leaves him reeling from its force. She chips away at him, at his carefully chiselled exterior, until he is cracked through and his pent-up _emotions _are spilling out onto the ground like intestines from a speared belly.

He hates it.

* * *

In the months that they have been working together, that they have been in such close quarters, he has attempted to avoid her, avoid the burning sensation in the pit of his stomach whenever they are in the same room, avoid the sparks flying between them in a frisson of electricity, avoid the smirking turquoise eyes that follow his every movement and the curling red lips that he often (_too _often for his liking) feels the urge to crush against his own in a desperation even stronger than- _before._

Before, when John Watson nagged at him to buy milk, when he still had a place in among his skull and scattered papers and violin, when Molly Hooper supplied him with illegal body parts and Mrs Hudson made his tea happen. Before, when Gordon (Gary?) Lestrade slapped cases down with a sigh and asked him reluctantly to help, when Mycroft planted 'inconspicuous' cameras in his flat every fortnight without fail.

When he was still alive.

He pushes the unwelcome thoughts away and attempts to focus on the maps he is studying, but thoughts of London and home infiltrate his mind again.

_Get a grip_, he tells himself forcefully. He isn't usually like this- why _now? _Why now, when it is crucial not to be so... attached?

He knows without thinking about it. It's because of _her._ She makes unwanted emotions rise up in his chest and unwanted thoughts rise up in his mind.

She is a useless distraction, and she prevents him from functioning properly.

* * *

They have almost reached the top of the chain, the centre of the web from which all the threads radiate out from.

All they need to do, he explains to her, is access Moran's base, wherever that may be (he has a rough idea but he needs to confirm it before telling her) and kill him. They are not going to bother with attempting to extract information from him.

He may be unable to accomplish his usual perception, but he is observant enough to notice her swallow.

* * *

He is thankful for her aloofness. Whenever they talk it is only ever about their work. They both avoid the subject of their past lives.

Occasionally, he feels her gaze on the back of his neck, but when he turns round she is never looking in his direction. Occasionally, his gaze is drawn like a magnet to her, but he always looks away in time. Occasionally, their gazes touch for the slightest moment but then they both glance away and he is self-aware enough to register the wave of both relief and disappointment rise and fall in his stomach.

She makes him uncertain, and that, in turn, makes her somehow _special._

* * *

It is weeks later that he finally gets a definite location. Well, three. Moran is either in Kansas, Minnesota or Florida, and he favours Kansas. It is roughly 1,200 miles from where they are now, and it will take approximately 20 hours to get there. They will have to travel in disguise.

* * *

He notices that she is particularly uneasy when he mentions that he has a plan to kill Moran. When he asks her why, she answers with an "It's complicated."

He knows why, though. Or he has a pretty certain guess.

"It's because you were involved with him, weren't you? Sexually, I mean."

She is silent, and he takes that as a solid yes. He hadn't missed the way she always referred to Moran as _Sebastian, _either.

"And you worked with him. A lot."

She purses her lips and shakes her head. "No. Well, partly, but not quite. It was- it was his daughter. He was like- like a father to me, you know. He acted like he _cared._"

A flash of lightning illuminates his thoughts. Oh. _Oh._

"It's necessary to kill him. We have to do it."

Her face is strained and she nods tightly. "I know. But Mary-"

"You still love her."

His voice is taut, and he has no idea why. The words leave a foul aftertaste in his mouth, and he swallows to get rid of it. An unpleasant feeling is mounting in his chest and it is red and black and sour, so he forces it down into a hard knot that weighs at the pit of his stomach and works on making his face unreadable.

Her expression is indecipherable but he swears he sees something flicker in her eyes before she turns away.

"I wouldn't say _love._ Care for, yes. But she's obviously moved on. And so have I."

Her statement is a little too firm, and he studies her for a while, trying to decide whether she is lying or not (why this is important he doesn't know) before quickly flicking his stare away when she looks up at him.

"Why?" Her voice is slightly defensive and he makes a note of it.

"No reason." He struggles to keep his tone neutral and it doesn't quite work, as she raises an eyebrow.

"Really." She is looking away again, at her hands which are twisted into a tight knot. "Well, there's nothing more and nothing less. No need for you to be _anxious."_

He shrugs. "It wasn't necessary, anyway. And why would I ever feel such a pointless emotion as _anxiety?"_

He winces inwardly. Bad choice of words. It implied that he _did _feel, suggesting that he felt emotions deeper than anxiety. And he knew what she would take it as.

She lifts and drops a shoulder, and he is momentarily transfixed by the grace flowing from the simple movement. "I don't know. You just seem more touchy than usual. Perhaps it's the _heat_ getting to you."

He has no worthy retort, so he just glowers at her and leaves the room.

* * *

Once in a while, when he walks in and she doesn't notice, he watches her biting her lip and tapping her fingers intermittently on the surface of the table, the arm of the chair, the counter top. Once or twice she makes as if to reach for her camera phone but she always stops short.

Something is definitely going on. He doesn't know what, and he doesn't know how or why or when, but it niggles at the back of his mind constantly.

* * *

He makes arrangements for them to travel to Kansas the next day.

* * *

**Eurgh, feelings. I have a theory that Sherlock has slight synesthesia (the condition where you think in colours). That's why he thinks of jealousy as 'red and black'. Of course, being a person without this particular condition, I have no idea if red and black really are the colours. I've heard that jealousy is often associated with the colour green, but I just don't like that, so I changed it. Mwahahaha.**

**Also, I wrote a lot of this while in the car, etc., so I'm truly sorry that it's so muddled and just ew.**

**And yes, Mary is Moran's daughter. I wasn't really planning on revealing it so soon, but I ruined it anyway, so I might as well make it clear.**

**I think I'm destroying any plot twists I may have dreamt up already. I'll stop talking now.**

**Thanks for reading! :)**

**~detectiveintheshadows**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hey! Chapter number 4! This one's a flashback... back to Karachi. There's a tiny bit of smut in here, but it doesn't progress all the way through. Bear in mind, it's the first time I've even attempted anything like smut, so there we go. Sorry if it's bad. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own 'Sherlock' or any of its characters.**

* * *

_In the end_

_Everyone ends up alone_

_Losing her_

_The only one who's ever known_

_Who I am_

_Who I'm not, who I wanna be_

_No way to know_

_How long she will be next to me_

She sighs and runs her hand through her tangled hair, wincing at the knots. She is in her undergarments- plain and practical- which were meant to be white but are now a washed-out grey. Studying her body, she notes that her ribs are sticking out slightly and her vertebrae jut out. She has lost an inch and a half from her hips and waist and her hip bones protrude.

She runs her fingers over the flaky skin on her face and chapped lips, tracing the dark circles curving under her eyes. Her hair has been cut short, too short to be even considered beautiful. Suddenly, she is seized by a terrible anger at herself, at this wreck that she has become. Where has the strong, healthy, resplendent dominatrix gone? Her body has been replaced by a derelict shell that can barely even hold itself upright.

She hates this skeleton of a body that she has suddenly been thrust into.

Kicking the mirror in a sporadic burst of resentment at herself, at this wavering image in the cracks zigzagging across the trembling glass like a spider's web, she turns away bitterly and throws herself onto the stained sheets of the bed.

When sleep does come, it comes with a memory she both strives for and avoids.

* * *

"_Why?" The tone of her voice is sharper than she'd anticipated and she winces internally._

_He looks at her with barely concealed resentment._

"_What do you mean, why?"_

_She knows he is bluffing- he knows exactly what she means and more. She doesn't answer, just raises and eyebrow and tilts her head to one side expectantly._

_He breathes in loudly and half-turns away from her. "Most people would thank me for saving their life, much at the risk of my own, and go to bloody sleep!"_

_By the end of his sentence, he is almost shouting._

_She stands up a little straighter and unfolds her arms. "So you admit that you risked your life... to save mine? Also, I'm not most people."_

_He lets out a sarcastic puff of air from his nostrils and faces her with that cutting glare. "Keep telling yourself that."_

_She notices he doesn't address her first point, but decides not to pursue it just yet. "What do you mean?"_

_His gaze flicks away. "Which part? Or all of it?"_

_She keeps her stare trained on him and ignores his scorn. "You implied that I'm ordinary, that I'm deluding myself with the image that I'm different. What did you mean by that?"_

_His upper lip raises in an almost vicious sneer. "I don't need to explain myself to you."_

"_No, you don't. But you of all people must understand that I am not inclined toward the notion of being normal."_

_He takes in a deep breath and squares himself up to her. "Fine! If it's that vital for your survival, fine!" He is striding to her now, heat from his fury radiating off him at every step._

"_People- all people, even you- always, inevitably, leave. They all leave and forget and move on-" he is spitting the words out now, and she nearly recoils at the intensity in his face- "and you will do the same and so will I, and we'll both forget about each other and the memories will decay and soon we won't even feel the tiniest hint of recognition at the other's name."_

_She has the overwhelming urge to back away, to distance herself from this savage creature with the twisted features that holds the name Sherlock Holmes but isn't anything like him. The Sherlock she knows is controlled and calm and indifferent._

_She holds her ground._

"_So? What has that got to do with anything?"_

_He seems to wrench himself back to reality, back to the little dingy room with flickering yellow light and cracked walls._

"_Do you not want to be remembered? By everyone you meet?" His tone is softer now, slightly confused._

_She considers his question. "Well, doesn't everyone? We all wish to leave a scar on the face of the earth. We all wish to cut a deeper one, a wider one, a longer one, than the last."_

_A frustrated moan escapes his throat. "But they aren't scars! They are monuments, commemorating our victories, statues to live while we ourselves pass away, for future generations to admire. They are trophies!"_

_She shakes her head. "No. But what's so special about me? Why do you want to be remembered by me? Surely you have enough people to stare after your wake with wide eyes and open mouths- that adoring little doctor of yours, for one."_

_He stops fuming, starts frowning instead. "John isn't adoring. I'm not going to deny the second adjective, though."_

_She waits for the answer that isn't aimed to deflect her questions._

_He lets the second breath out slower, exaggerating his annoyance. "You're- different."_

_She is expecting something more, but is only greeted by his silence and his bowed head._

"_Wonderful deduction," she says, but she understands what he means._

_He glowers at her and half-curls his upper lip. "I meant-"_

_She cuts him off. "I know."_

_He looks at her properly for the first time, and she almost blushes at the way her heart leaps. She's acting like a simpering schoolgirl._

_But she cannot deny that there is a capital-S Something that passes through the eye contact. It's almost a mutual understanding, and there is a conversation being had- no, not a conversation, more of an acknowledgement of each other's minds._

_It's completely new. And she's out of her depth._

_So she switches to what she's best at. Taking the half-step that separates their bodies, she looks up into his face, cups his jaw, and kisses him firmly on his lips._

_His lips are unresponsive at first, but she persists until they move ever so slightly and she moans in the back of her throat as an encouragement._

_Her other hand reaches up to tangle its fingers in his curls and she tugs gently on his follicles. His mouth grows more confident, and his tongue brushes at her bottom lip for entrance. She hums in surprise and pleasure at his forwardness, and gladly allows him access. His hands rise to her waist, and he pulls her hips towards his to compensate for the increasingly demanding kisses._

_She gasps at the hardness against her thigh and grinds against him, drawing a choked groan from deep in his throat and she smirks against his lips._

_Of course, he is Sherlock Holmes and cannot bear losing, so he pulls away from her mouth to trail a burning path of moist kisses across her jaw and down her throat. She sighs in response and her eyelids flutter closed. She can feel his dark chuckle reverberate through her bones._

_All at once, she cannot wait. She grunts, and pushes him against the wall, rejoining their mouths fiercely._

_At least she takes him by surprise._

_He moans in shock and reciprocates just as ardently. They are like that for what could be hours, or days, or weeks, trapped in a searing moment, before he grows restless and decides to swap positions._

_He almost growls, a noise she never would have thought possible come from _his_ mouth, and grabs her hips, digging his fingertips in so it is almost painful and in a way that she knows will definitely leave bruises. He shoves her into the wall, letting go of her waist to trap both her wrists in one hand to hold above her head as he presses his body length to length with hers, staring into her eyes with a flame she hadn't known existed in him burning in his pupils as their mouths crash together again, teeth clashing and cheekbones bumping in their desperate hunger._

_She hasn't had this kind of fire in her stomach for ages._

_He reaches down with his free hand to almost tear her shalwar kameez off and she grunts when she hears the sound of rending seams. He doesn't seem to hear, or care, and ducks his head down to tear the straps of her bra off with his teeth and quickly flicks his tongue around her hardening nipples._

_She has never seen Sherlock like this before- fierce and wild and out of control. She vaguely wonders if this is what he is like when high on a drug fix, blown pupils and drawn brows with a visible pulse beating in his throat._

_She can only moan and press against him harder._

* * *

_As the early morning light streams in and tickles her bare shoulder, she senses movement. Opening her eyes a crack and turning her head to the right (and wincing at the slight twinge of pain) she sees Sherlock, standing there with his shirt in hand and looking at her as if she is a teacher catching him smoking behind the bike sheds._

_She reaches up to rub her eyes, her arms screaming at her, and murmurs sleepily, "Where are you going?"_

_His voice is a rumble. "Away."_

_She almost rolls her eyes, and shifts so that she is in a sort-of sitting position. "Obviously. What I meant is why."_

_He looks almost pained for a minute, and his gaze slides away from her. "Because John will be missing me."_

"_No." She doesn't say any more, just stares at him through now-wide-awake eyes._

_He sighs and the words seem to have difficulty emerging from his mouth. "Last night... It was a mistake."_

_She is surprised at the sheer hurt that his statement causes. "Pardon?"_

"_It was a mistake. A mere experiment that went wrong. I apologise for my misjudgement."_

_A laugh slips out from between her lips. It is incredulous and humourless. "You- you apologise? An experiment? Sherlock, are you alright?"_

_His face is impassive, and his eyes are cold. "I am perfectly fine."_

_She shakes her head. "No, you're not."_

_Taking the off-white sheet that covers her body, she wraps it around herself and crawls towards him. She grabs the shirt he is holding and pulls on it, but he doesn't let go._

"_Sherlock." He doesn't respond at all, just stares in the general direction of the door. "Sherlock!"_

_When he does turn to her, his eyes are glassy and unfocused. "Sherlock, listen to me. Whatever this is, whatever twisted joke you're pulling or whatever drug you're on, stop this! It's not funny, this time. You hear me? Sherlock, it's not funny!"_

_He opens his mouth, and his words seem to come from a long distance away._

"_I don't love you."_

_The words don't fully register until he has gone._

* * *

**Not too sure about the ending, but it was the best I could come up with.**

**Should I raise the rating to an M? Only, it's not really full-out step-by-step, but I don't know? Should I, should I not?**

**I'm actually so annoying, asking y'all these questions that I should know. Sorry!**

**Thanks for reading!**

**~detectiveintheshadows**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hey! This is Chapter 5! This focuses more on their thoughts and feelings than the actual plot.**

**This chapter is actually quite a bit longer than the others (I know that's still not a lot but yeah). Plus there was a lot of clearing up to do in this part. ;)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own 'Sherlock' or any of its characters, nor do I gain any monetary profit from publishing this.**

* * *

_Lost and insecure_

_You found me, you found me_

_Lyin' on the floor_

_Surrounded, surrounded_

_Why'd you have to wait?_

_Where were you? Where were you?_

_Just a little late_

_You found me, you found me_

She wakes with a start, heart thumping and blood pounding through her veins. She concentrates on getting her breathing even, closing her eyes and forcing her body to relax and her muscles to unclench.

"Are you alright?"

The voice comes from the open door that spills yellow light into the shadowy room.

She screams.

Normally, she wouldn't have screamed. Normally, she wouldn't bat an eyelid. Normally, she would have _known _that there was someone by the door in the first place.

But this isn't normally, so she screams an embarrassingly piercing scream that could shatter glass and that could reach China and back. It finally trails off into a series of gasping sobs occasionally interjected with a profanity that would definitely _not_ make her path to Heaven any straighter.

The silhouette in the rectangle of light takes a long step backwards, and makes a disapproving noise.

"Was that really necessary? The neighbours will complain."

She doesn't know whether he is joking or not.

"There- there are neighbours?" is the only reply she can think of that doesn't involve rising hysterics.

He sighs heavily, apparently deciding that the question is too appallingly stupid to even consider answering.

"I mean, why are you here?" She blames her slowness on lack of water and having to put up with Sherlock for more than a couple of hours.

She can't make out his features, but she can just sense him rolling his eyes. "If you mean why am I here just outside your room attempting a normal conversation, opposed to why am I here on the face of the Earth, our flight leaves in two hours. Now, the second variation of your original question takes a long and, frankly, very tedious route through the tracings of my family history and a secondary school level biology lesson if you really want a detailed account of my exist-"

She cuts him off before he goes off on a lecture about his mother's gestation period and what-not.

"That's enough information, thank you. _More _than enough."

He nods, albeit a little awkwardly, seemingly unsure of what to do next.

She waits for him to go so she can get ready. When he doesn't move, she raises an eyebrow and stares back.

All of a sudden, words erupt out of his mouth. "What I said in Karachi- it wasn't... I mean, it's not necessary that all of it was true. I was- I was nervous, I suppose- and, well, I just..."

She is not prepared for this particular conversation, but this is probably going to be the only chance she will ever have, so she holds up a hand to stop his tirade.

"Sherlock. I understand that what you said was untimely, and I understand why you would regret what we- did. I know that I forced it onto you in a manner that you're probably not used to, and I apologise for that."

He takes two steps forward, making it easier for her to see his expression. It is almost _pained,_ a word that she would never have associated with Sherlock Holmes, the only consulting detective in the world.

"Miss Ad- _Irene._ I didn't mean what I said. Well, not all of it anyway."

She is suddenly irrationally angry at him. "Not all of it? What, you mean the part where you said that it was all an experiment- that you were _using _me? Or the bit where you dismissed it all as a _mistake_ on your part? Even if it was a mistake, it would be _my _mistake, alright? It would be _my _mistake, because what makes you think that _I _would want to sleep with _you_? Your ego is too big for your own good, Mr Holmes."

As soon as the words escape her mouth, she nearly regrets them at the flash of unmistakeable hurt that flashes across his face.

She forges on, ignoring the feeling in her gut that tells her not to, to _stop right there and apologise._

"Or was it the bit where you told me that you don't love me? After all we've been through, after all-" Her voice cracks for a second, and she fights the lump in her throat. "And you told me that you wouldn't even give a flying shit if I had died right there in that terrorist cell in Pakistan?"

She lets out a laugh that feels as broken as herself. "I'd thought before that you weren't the unfeeling, uncaring _freak_ that everybody had told me you were, I'd thought maybe there was the chance that I'd gotten through to you, seen the real _you,_ but now-" she takes a deep breath. "Now I see I was wrong. And they were right."

She doesn't say anything more, but the subtext is as clear as daylight to both of them.

_They were right. You _are _a freak. Freak freak freak. You're the psychopath that nobody would ever, could ever, care for._

His face is closed now, and it seems like all the barriers he had put up for the ordinary people are now erected again for her.

"Fine." His voice is distant, cold, lacking the feeling he had had before. "You're right. You're right, Miss Adler."

When she doesn't meet his eyes, he strides up to her, to her kneeling figure on the squeaky springs of the mattress.

"Is that what you wanted?" He roars into her face, his own twisted into an unrecognisable mask, shaking with rage. "Is that what you wanted? For me to admit that I am wrong and that you are right, everyone is right that I'm a _monster_ that should be put down? Well, you've got it. You've finally got your own way, _Miss Adler._ Happy, now?"

Her gaze slides away from his burning stare, shaken at his words. "Sher- That's not what I meant."

He lets out a half-snort, half-laugh. "That's what it sounded like to me. Care to enlighten the rest of the world what Your Highness means?"

His voice is dangerously soft, a steel blade under a velvet curtain, brimming with a challenge but already flaring with a pre-decided victory.

And she finds the searing passion that fuelled her before.

"Why should I? Why should I, when all you do is swan around sneering at the rest of us _mortals _because you, Sherlock Holmes, are a god compared to us? Because of course, you are the _genius _that needs no one by his side, that works alone, that despises humans so much that he refuses to be one? But you are one, Sherlock," her voice drops down to a fierce whisper. "You _are _one. And there's nothing you can do about it, is there? You will die, along with the rest of your miserable race. Is that what this is about?"

He makes as if to take hold of her, to shake her so that she will cease to exist.

"Go on! Go on, then, if that's what you want! Take my neck and snap it, Sherlock. _Kill _me, like you should, because that's just what you are, isn't it, a-"

His arms drop by his side. "A what?" He is speaking in an almost _shocked_ voice. "A what, exactly, Irene?"

She shakes her head at him, unable to continue.

"A murderer? A freak? A psychopath? Is that what you think of me? Hm?"

The flash is back in his eyes, and he spits the words out as if they leave a bad taste on his tongue.

She tries to backtrack. "No, it's not. Sherlock, it's not."

She can almost glimpse the red and gold sparks flying under his skin. He is made out of fire, flames in his eyes and an inferno in his blood.

"What is, then? What is it that you think of me?"

She swallows, hard, unable to put in words what he makes her feel.

_Her life, her heart, her soul. He consumed everything she had thought she owned with the blazing bonfire that was him but he fed her hunger too and he gave her life and heat from the ice that was her body. He made her melt, the fragmented shards of her heart turning to scalding heat that incinerated her from the inside out but then made her rise again, a phoenix from the ashes. He was the splash of bright colour that wove its way into her grey life; he was the blinding light that dazzled her, the rush of adrenaline coursing through her veins like liquid fire._

But she can't tell him that without seeming _sentimental,_ so she just says, "A clever man who wears a stupid hat. The detective who was the only one who ever came close to beating me. The bravest man I ever knew. Thinks he's alone but actually has friends who would die for him. And he would die for them too."

His lips press together. "Came close? I _did_ beat you."

But his tone has lost the raw fury, and his eyes tell her differently.

She raises a brow and tells him, "Oh, we both know that's not quite true."

He frowns at her. "What do you mean?"

She shrugs. "Well, look at the evidence. You heard I was going to be executed. You could have left me to die... But you didn't. After you saved me, you- left, giving me a new identity and a new home. Then, when I'd thought I'd seen the last of you, you returned. Telling me you _needed_ me. Now, detective, what might we deduce from that?"

She smirks at his sullen expression.

"We might deduce that I saved you because it would be a shame to lose a mind such as yours. And I did need your help. Chalk the living accommodation and necessities up to my generosity, and there we are. _Et voila._"

She feigns hurt. "Mr Holmes! Are you suggesting that after all the great lengths you went through to keep me safe, and after all we've been through together that you don't care for me just a tiny bit?"

She has assumed the costume of the old Irene Adler now, the old playfulness and flirtatiousness.

He rolls his eyes. "Oh please. We are not going through this conversation again."

She only smirks. "Denial is the first stage, Mr Holmes."

He scowls at her. "That's a stupid myth for people with no intelligence to speak of. Am I being forced to put you in that category, Miss Adler?"

But she can see the faintest smile playing around his mouth.

"Oh, Mr Holmes," she purrs, leaning forwards so that their faces are only a few inches apart, "the exact opposite."

His nostrils flare from their proximity to each other, but he doesn't pull away. "And what might you be suggesting, Miss Adler?"

She pauses and glances away for a second. "I've told you what I think of you. Why don't you tell me what you think of me?"

His eyes narrow. "Stop deflecting the question."

"I'm not. I'm only asking you another question."

He sighs. "That _is_ deflecting the question."

"It's not if I'm saving the answer for later."

He raises his eyebrows. "And are you?"

She smiles. "No."

He sighs in exasperation. "Fine."

She raises an eyebrow. "Is that 'fine' to my question or 'fine' to my statement?"

"The latter."

She cocks her head to one side. "And the former?"

"What about the former?" His voice has a slight annoyed edge to it, but she knows that he knows it is only a variation of the Game they used to play.

"Will you answer it?"

He knits his brows, as if to think, but she knows it is only an act. "Perhaps."

"Perhaps what?"

"Perhaps..." He doesn't finish the sentence, but it is a promise and a question all at once.

"Well?" She breathes, becoming more acutely aware of their closeness, of the tingling she feels in her lips, as if the sparks from his skin has leapt to hers and they are melding with her blood cells.

"Irene Adler..." He says, as if tasting the words on his lips for the first time. "I meant what I said before, you know. I don't love you."

She is aware of the jolt of disappointment inside her. Pulling away, she smiles a bitter smile at him and sits back on her heels. "I should have known. I won't make the same mistake again. I'm sor-"

She is interrupted by his right index finger at her lips.

"No. What I mean is... I don't_ love _you. Love is for- for people like Molly and John and Graham-"

"Graham?"

"Lestrade." He goes back to his speech, unaware of his blunder. "It's for _ordinary_ people. Us- we're different. It's not _love_ we have, it's- it's-"

She can honestly say that she has never heard Sherlock stammer so much.

She cuts in before he can make another mistake. It may seem selfish to some, but she can't think of Sherlock in the same way if he is acting like a blustering idiot.

"It's as if you've stolen my life away."

He nods, relief flooding his eyes as he realises that she is the same. "But not only that- it's an _addiction._"

They are not sentimental people, and she does not wish for them to be, so she kisses him to shut him up before they begin gushing over each other's eyes or whatever people do these days.

But he is right, however much she tries to elude it. This _thing_ between Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler is unique. They are in a league of their own, Sherlock, Jim, Mycroft and Irene. And the threads of their fate entwine and tangle and knot, complicated as their own minds. He is her heroin, and she is his cocaine, and they will destroy each other until they are both piles of dust and ashes, then rise once again in a cloud of fire and smoke, still interlaced with one another.

It's not love they feel for each other. It's indescribable, like the beauty of moonlight glancing off ripples of water, like verse written by starlight. It is the velvet sky sliced open by the first ray of sunlight. It is raw passion and, as it melds and parts, it is her bone and flesh and the tingling of the sea of flames beneath his skin. It devours both of them in a blaze of fire that never ceases.

They are both damaged beings, both cracked beyond repair, and together they will never heal- but they can at least hold the other's hand and make the pain more bearable. And what they have is not for mortals.

He kisses her back with a tenderness that she has never experienced before, a tenderness that makes her want to hold him and cry. Of course, she does not, only pulling him against herself in a hopeless bid to make him stay with her forever.

The tenderness does not last long, though. Soon the fire in them has grown, enough to radiate from their bodies and consume a large part of their minds.

This time it is a battle, a constant change of power and fight for dominance.

_Satisfaction rises in her chest as she straddles him to roll her hips again his and watches his eyes roll into the back of his head and his hands clench._

_Surprise as he flips them over and attacks her neck and throat with hot kisses, causing her to sigh against him._

_When finally they are each laid bare to the other and their bodies meet, it is still the same._

_His face as he enters her from above, a mixture of intensity and something that tells her _i will always be looking over you no matter what_ and something else, an emotion she can't quite place but one she returns._

_His eyes (as if she is important, as if she is the only one for him) as she retaliates and straddles him once again, riding him fast and hard until his eyelids scrunch shut and sweat beads his forehead._

_Until finally they face each other, an unspoken agreement for a truce on the battlefield._

* * *

When it is finished, when the searing flames of their passion have died down to still-glowing embers and they are lying limp and boneless on the mattress, he takes her face in his hands and tells her seriously, "I don't love you."

She answers with the most sincerity she has ever felt. "I don't love you either."

He nods and takes her lips with his own once again.

* * *

They almost miss their flight.

* * *

**Was it okay? Please leave your thoughts/moans/anything if you want! I'm mostly one of those people who has no idea where they are going or what is going on around them, so a little constructive criticism (or just plain old criticism, I won't mind) would be useful!**

**Oh, by the way, I tried to make this chapter kind of funny but also with angsty bits in. (I'm not good at funny, so don't kill me!) Did it sorta work? :/**

**Thanks for reading! :D**

**~detectiveintheshadows**


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